Christmas doesn't mean happiness
by public static void
Summary: In Wool's Orphanage, Christmas was sad and colorless in spite of the red and green decorations.
1. Bottled Trust

Frost covered the windows, dimming the light coming through them. Tom wiped the bottom of the nearest window, the one above his bed, with Amy's sweater and looked out. People were running from here to there, silent and quick; they carried boxes or bags, a sad attempt at celebrating Christmas in the middle of a war. He thought it was stupid, but he was only an orphan boy who had no opinion to the world; Tom stayed silent.

Inside the orphanage there were decorations hanging everywhere, drowning the place in green, red, and gold. It looked bleak and lonely, because Christmas time was when most kids were left behind, and the older ones had to go. That morning Madeline Barnes and Edmund Smith said their farewell to the few friends they had, and with fourteen years old they were sent into the world. Tom knew Edmund would enlist into the army, but Barnes would have a hard time trying to fit anywhere.

He briefly considered thanking God for the food on his stomach and the roof above his head, but he scoffed and threw himself on his bed.

The rickety thing creaked when his weight hit it, but it held. Tom guessed that by the time he turned twelve he would need to get a new bed, one that could support him. Maybe he could even get a pillow if he used his talent on the sisters; or he could steal it from Amy, who was vulnerable now without Madeline to protect her.

Meanwhile, he had to endure in the sad place, where no one cared for him and he cared for no one. He looked around. The gray walls had holes through where the other kids sometimes dared each other to spy on Tom. He saw there were no prying eyes that afternoon, and the door was closed.

From beneath the bed, hidden behind the small box with his trophies, Tom took out a small bottle of eggnog he stole from the kitchens the night before. The beverage was only for the sisters, while the kids like himself had to do with half a glass of milk. Tom had tasted eggnog once when Miss Cole was drunk and the other sisters were already sleeping. He had liked it.

A noise came from the door, and Tom sprang from his bed and narrowed his eyes. The bottle of eggnog fell to the floor, and Tom held out his hand and the bottle flew to it. He waved his hand and the door opened. A boy was freezing there, his eyes wide with fear and shielding his body with his arms as if that would stop Tom...

"What do you want?" Tom asked, standing from the bed and walking up to the paralyzed boy who was shaking a little. Tom knew him from class. He was a young boy who was too smart for the group of his age and the teacher had him moved up so he wouldn't keep asking questions. In a way, he was like Tom had been before realizing no teacher would ever pay attention to him.

"I wa- I wasn't doing anything, Tom! I swear!"

Tom kept his eyes on the boy, and suddenly he was seeing himself and a cold shiver ran through him; he understood it wasn't him feeling the fear and apprehension. He stood taller after that and put a hand on the boy's shoulder.

"Come," he told the boy who kept shaking with fear.

Tom smiled when the boy entered the room. He closed the door, prompting the boy to jump.

"Don't hurt me. Please."

"What is your name?" Tom asked. The boy looked confused, as if he couldn't know if being scared or relieved of Tom's interest.

"Ha- Harold Green,"

The pathetic tone of the boy made Tom hesitate. He could relate to him in many ways, and he would love to kill the weakness inside Harold Green as he had done with the weakness inside himself. But it would scare the boy away, and maybe this Christmas would be better spent with someone else besides the snakes that would come tonight with gifts for Tom.

"Have some eggnog," Tom told the boy and retreated to a corner, grabbing a book on fairy tales he had stolen from Madeline before she went away.

Harold Green glanced at the bottle and then at Tom, who could feel his eyes over himself.

"Drink," Tom ordered, strongly this time.

The boy hurried to drink from the bottle and when he took a big gulp and set the drink back over Tom's nightstand.

"What was that? It tasted like milk, but sweeter."

The corners of Tom's mouth lifted a little, but the gesture could not be called a smile. There was something warm on his chest, though, because Harold sounded faintly surprised and that amused Tom.

"That's your Christmas gift, Harold Green."


	2. Candles Weeping Red

The sisters had put up candles to pray, making Tom kneel with the other kids in front of a crucifix; a dead god stared at him and Tom couldn't see past his cold, unfocused eyes. There was something very _real_ about the figure, and it was not the fake blood coming from the wounds or the crown of thorns on his temples. Maybe it was only Tom's imagination.

Miss Cole didn't want him near the thin Christmas tree; the figurines of a mother, father, and newborn baby he was holding fell to the floor in a form of silent protest. He wished she could see past the tantrum, he wished she could understand he had just dropped their last chance at making him believe there was something good in the world for him.

"Don't be like that, Tom," Miss Cole began to say, putting a hand on Tom's head and trying to look into his eyes. "The little children want to set up the nativity sets."

Tom wanted to fight her; the words burned on his throat and his head began to pound with the same power that hindered him when it was not let out. Wasn't he a little child too? Why wasn't he as important as Amy or Ben or Harold?

He shook her hand off his head and stepped on the newborn figurine on his way out of the little play room, leaving the tree behind him, already knowing that year would be like the last and no gifts will be set out for him to be opened on Christmas day.

He went to his bedroom and sat on the bed and trying hard not to cry. Snow fell outside, and he almost wished he could be there, freezing under the snow, instead of being in the bare and boring bedroom that made him feel small and powerless.

The covers of his bed were not even warm, anyway, and when night fell and the cold winds blew, shaking the windows, he shivered and tried to forget the biting sensation on his skin. Time passed, and the night was almost over when he finally fell asleep without feeling the cold on his feet anymore; he didn't feel his feet at all, numb with either cold or magic.

The morning came too soon, and Tom didn't waste time dressing up for a breakfast that would consist of cold milk and hard bread. Orphans didn't get much those days, not with a war raging outside. Tom was one of the orphans who got even less, because as much as the sisters say everyone was equal in their god's eyes, the truth is they didn't like Tom and they gave him less and less to see if he died or ran away. It would be a sweeter fate, he guessed, because the thing about equality was that everyone's equal when they're dead. He read those words in passing, in a thick book with many characters, and the words stayed with him.

He turned up for breakfast anyway, because he wouldn't let the sisters win without fighting.

Everyone was already eating, and some of the children didn't even notice he got there. The kids who saw him tried to ignore him, evading his eyes as if he were a monster in their nightmares. It wasn't a bad idea, but Tom's talent hadn't progressed much and he could only see inside their minds and couldn't yet feed them images or thoughts. He wished he could do that already, to make them feel what he felt.

He sat on a lonely table, and the chandelier alive with the flame of five red candles weeped wax, the fire ending their lives. He smiled at his bread (there was porridge on the big table, but the sister only gave him bread and milk, and cold cheese), and it was suddenly bigger, as if the universe could see how hungry he was and tried to feed him so he could grow and get revenge to the people who hated him for being _better_.

Why couldn't they love him? The same people that claimed to love the snow hated him for being cold and unforgiving, and to his eyes, that was not fair. Nothing was fair.

The snow kept falling, and sometimes the soldiers that passed by the window waved to him, thinking he was one of the good children. He wasn't. He was a cursed child with no love, but he would be strong and brave, and maybe some day the world would be at his feet.


	3. The Holly and The Ivy

"It sounds to me like someone needs to sing a Christmas Carol."

The sister's voice was annoying, more so because she was prompting the other children to look at him again, with their stupid faces scared and mocking at the same time. He didn't care about their songs or the so-called _Christmas Spirit_ that he should be feeling because the holidays arrived.

He stood up from the small bench where he sat alone, walked to the door, and aimlessly walked around the empty orphanage. Everyone was there, singing and celebrating with stale cookies donated by people with money. They should be adopting them or taking them to their homes for at least a day to really be considered good people.

Tom disliked them, the rich, even more than he hated the sisters of the orphanage. At the same time, he wished he could have money like they did. If he had money he would–

He turned around when he heard a noise. By now he was familiar with the distinctive noise of Harold's footsteps, and even when the boy tried to be silent Tom could hear him.

"You could have stayed there," Tom said when the boy came into view. He wore the trousers Tom had given him the day before, which had been stolen from a boy named David who had made fun of Harold's old trousers. "The sisters will bring the good cookies now that I'm here."

Tom sounded childish even to his ears, and he was ashamed of that. He couldn't be a child: he had no toys, family, or a full stomach like any child had the right to. Harrold only tilted his head to the right; it was a gesture that angered Tom because he couldn't know if the boy understood what he said or simply stayed silent to keep on Tom's good graces.

"You are more fun, Tom," Harold answered after a too-long moment before going to sit by the dwindling fire. Tom hesitated before following him, but he sat in front of Harold on the plushy chair.

He couldn't hide from himself the warm sensations on his chest when Harold called him fun; he had never been described in that way, and it meant a lot to him.

Still, he didn't know what to do with Harold. They couldn't talk because Harold liked to chatter about everything, and Tom liked to talk about the unfairness of their situation. They couldn't play because Harold liked to play pretend, and Tom liked to play with the snakes from the garden. They had nothing in common, so why did Tom like to spend time with the boy?

"Miss Cole said I will be taken to another orphanage after the holidays."

The boy's voice was colder than Tom had ever heard from him, his eyes were glossy but vacant. Tom had the ghost of a smile on his lips, a shivering laughter at the tip of his tongue. He didn't laugh. He couldn't, even if he wanted to.

Harold had been an annoying shadow these last days, but he had something none of the other kids possessed. Harold liked Tom, and Tom was comfortable with Harold now. Tom thought, just then, that maybe the sisters were doing that to punish him for not being meek anymore, for not being the same lonely boy he was a few days ago.

"Are you listening to me, Tom?" Harold was still afraid, and his voice reflected the sentiment, but Tom couldn't see it in that moment.

He stood from his chair, his vision fading at the sides and only focusing on the door to the room he left minutes ago. He was about to open the door and glare at the sisters to let them know he knew of their plan. Tom wanted them to feel anguish and be a bunch of nerves from the next hours until he got his revenge. Maybe the snakes would help him and bite the sisters; not to kill them, but to paralyze them for a few minutes. That would give Tom enough time to scare them and vanish any hints of his involvement and guilt.

"You don't have to do that, Tom."

The door knob felt cold to his hand and Tom dreaded the cold that seeped into his soul whenever he thought of Harold leaving.

"Yes, I have."

"I— I'll leave if you do it!"

His words were enough to make Tom turn around and walk up to him. Harold was slightly taller, and Tom found himself looking up into the boy's gray eyes. He could hear Harold's quick breathing and the frantic beating of his heart.

"You have no right to threaten me," Tom whispered coldly, trying to sound sure of himself while his heart beat as fast as Harold's. The boy would not leave, even if Tom had to kill him and hide his rotting corpse under his bed or bury it in the wild garden growing in the back of the orphanage. There, his snakes could take care of the boy. He would be fine with them.

"I want to stay with you. The sisters want you to do something so they can make you leave instead."

Tom took a step back. He was confused and didn't understand why Harold was telling him that. Yet the comfortable warmth that he had been getting used to came back with the force of a bomb.

"I'll make them let you stay. Trust me."

He didn't know if Harold truly trusted him, but he would do everything in his power to fulfill his promise.


	4. A Gift for an Absent Father

Tom roamed the dark and lonely streets of midnight London. The few lamps sheding light were far from him and he walked well away from their light, staying in the darkness where no one could see him even if they were looking for someone. Tom had a talent to disappear when he wanted, to hide behind a tapestry of shadows to cover his steps. It was second nature to him, and he wondered if maybe his family (his real, talented family) had some strange abilities to control the night and the minds of others. It would be fitting, and he would have an explanation for his gifts.

That was the reason he was out of the miserable orphanage: he was looking for a Christmas gift the same way he did every year since he learned how to escape the sisters and cross the gate without needing the keys. The need for a present felt cynic; he wanted to give a present to the father that never came to look for him, to the parent who was nothing but the blood and bones that made Tom. What better date to give the unknown man a present than the day when another father abandoned his beloved child in a land of violence and pain?

His musings faded to nothing inside his mind when the shop he was looking for appeared in front of him. He had seen it before, though only at nights when he escaped. If he passed by during the day he would find a wall and a wooden sign hanging from it, with the drawing of a lantern and the words Lantern Waste written over it. The shop had an open sign, also made of wood. He went in and heard the tanging of a small bell attached to the door.

A man came from a door to the left of the counter, and he smiled kindly to Tom who tried to small back and could only nod. The man didn't ask why he was awake, or far from home, or without his parents. The kind brown eyes only stared at him as Tom looked around, oddly matching his wild hair. To Tom, it felt as if some lion was preying on him.

The first item that caught his eye was a pan flute on display over a cusion made with a rich and soft fabric; he touched it, expecting it to be made of some kind of wood. It was too cold to be wood, though, and it was then that Tom first read the small note attached to it.

The pan flute of Tomnus, will be made with the bones of a dying queen of winter.

Tom frowned and lowered his hand, moving to another display. A bow and a case of arrows with the quiver of a white-ish material that reflected the light from the many candles around the room had another note, but Tom couldn not make out the words because something bright caught his eye and he turned to the right. On a tall shelf, what looked like a golden egg rested in a silver candleholder that still had melted wax over it.

"Can I see that?" Tom asked the lion-looking man, widening his eyes to appear vulnerable; older people always fell for that lie. What Tom didn't know was that in that moment he really was a child in awe of all the items he could see. He did wonder about them, the pan flute and the arrows, and even the sword and shield hanging on the wall, but the egg was something different.

The man walked to the shelf and retrieved it easily. He set the egg and the candleholder over the counter, and the sound it made was sharp, more akin to steel hitting steel than tin hitting wood.

"It's yours if you give me a secret."

Tom was surprised by the man's words and the way in which he set the deal as if the trinket didn't have any value; maybe the reason why the store only opened at night was because everything was ilegal or forbidden. Instead of making him go away, the words of the man intrigued Tom. His heart sped up.

"What kind of secret?"

The man tiled his head to a side and then to the other, finishing with a shrug. Tom frowned. His legs were beginning to feel small shocks going from his feet to his legs, the same sensation he had when danger was close by and his talent bid him to run. The gaze from the man kept him still, though, and it was eerily similar to waking up in the middle of the night and being unable to move.

"I hurt people," Tom said suddenly. He was surprised by his words and by his heart's rapid beating. A shiver went through him. "The fear in their eyes when they see me is something I can't describe."

His voice was calm and cold, and the man's eyes hardened when he heard Tom's voice because he spoke with certainty and a hint of thrill. The man took the egg in his left hand and offered it to Tom.

Tom held out his hand and felt the cold material of the egg when the man handed it to him. Tom stared at the egg, his prize for being honest and the gift to the father who didn't know of him.

"Thank you, sir."

He got out of the store and ran to the orphanage. It was almost dawn; the sun was coming up and Tom didn't know how could he spend so much time in the presence of the lion-looking man without noticing the hours going by.


	5. A Friend's Wish

A family had come into the orphanage, happy and smiling. The father was a soldier in uniform, and his eyes had the hardened look of a warrior who fought for his beliefs and not those of others. He was the kind of father Tom wanted.

The mother looked plump but beautiful, with delicate features and black hair just like his. Her eyes, too, were similar to his own. Maybe they were their parents? What if the sisters had lied and his mother didn't die?

They had two children already. One was a girl, taller than Tom and maybe only a few months older; she looked innocent and naive, though her eyes also held intelligence in them. Her stare was ever-moving, taking in the Christmas decorations and the many bibles around. She frowned when her eyes met his, and though he tried to smile and make a good impression, he couldn't.

The family also had a boy, maybe three-years-old. He was smiling and trying to escape his mother's hand to join the toddlers in the care of Sister Ann, who sat by the window with them as they read.

It was Miss Cole the one who ordered all the boys and girls from five to seven years old. The family wanted someone of that age, to be either the little sister of an intelligent daughter, or the older brother to their little future soldier. Tom cursed, though he was careful not to be heard. He was slightly older than the age they wanted, but he looked back and saw a smiling Harold sitting on the designated bench for the boys and girls who would be interviewed by the family.

He could feel something burning on his chest. Harold, who would either be adopted or be transferred to another orphanage at the other side of town, smiled and waved at him. It ocurred to Tom that maybe Harold wanted to go away and find a family who could love him, just like him. It was a strange thought, and a stranger emotion, to know that his only friend could disappear from his life just like that.

Harold still deserved to be happy, and as Tom looked at the family as they were being led to the smaller classroom at the end of the aisle, Tom willed to be inside the father's mind and tried to put Harold's smile in his head. The father would see Harold's sweet smile and his innocent eyes; he would look at any other boys and fail to find the hesitant posture and the fidgeting of fingers. He would find them all unsuitable for his family, one too thin and the other with a nose that was too pointy.

Then the father would convince the mother, who is hopeful for another girl in spite of saying she has an open mind about it all. Tom noticed her glances towards one of the girls in particular, a pretty girl named Susan who didn't even know how to read. Susan could get hurt in any moment, though. She was sitting too close to the fireplace and in her hands she had an embroidery needle that could make its way to her eye, or her throat. Anything could happen to her, if Tom willed it so.

"Tom?" said Harold, standing in front of him and partially blocking Susan from Tom's sight. "Are you going to do something bad right now?"

Tom didn't know how Harold could know things like that; he had already surprised Tom once when he tried to steal the buckle of Martin's shoe. Harold had stayed with him through the whole ordeal, and when they finally went to sleep Tom put the buckle between Harold's hand and told him it was for him. Harold had nodded, and maybe he had appreciated the strange gift, but now he didn't look as if he accepted Tom's strangeness.

"They want to take Susan, Harold," Tom whispered. He almost smiled when Harold's eyes widened and he shifted on his feet to see the girl. "I've seen it in the mother's eyes."

Harold scrunched up his nose. "Susan is mean to little Jane. She calls her a whore's daughter and Jane doesn't know what Susan means."

Harold's words were angry, though Tom didn't know if Harold realized Tom was a lot worse than Susan. Susan hadn't killed the kitchen's cats, and Susan hadn't made Dennis Bishop throw up when he showed him the cat's heart. But Harold didn't like Susan and he liked Tom, so maybe he tried to forget about that kind of things.

"I want to go with them, Tom," Harold confessed and looked straight at Tom's eyes. Tom felt Harold's need for affection and the hunger for a family that radiated from the boy. "And I know you can make them take us both. Please, Tom. Make them take us home."

Harold's eyes were bright, shining with hope and a wish that could easily be granted. Tom could try, at least, but he wasn't sure...

"What if they don't like me and want to send us both back because of that?" Tom asked Harold, and for the first time in a long time he heard himself sounding weak in front of another child. Harold grabbed his hand.

"They will like us. You can make them like you."

Tom knew he could, not only because of his talent but because he could know what people wanted and could play that game. He knew Amy wanted an older brother so he made her bleed so they could share blood and be true siblings, but then she freaked out and the game ended.

Tom wouldn't let Harold's game end like his.

"I'll make them take you, Harold. I'll stay and you'll go, and you'll be happy with them."

Harold sought another answer hiding behind Tom's stance and his words. He found nothing more, but at the end of the day he had a new family.

Tom was alone again.


End file.
